Diehard

by Tony Masero

  ‘We must do it or stay trapped here.’

  Alcasay wormed his way with difficulty under the wagon until only the shade of the belly kept him from sight. ‘I am ready,’ he whispered, his rifle propped upward through the spokes of a wheel.

  Drawing a deep breath, Angelino leapt from cover with a loud war cry and ran towards the valley wall, leaping across the dying fire and making for the marked grave as he went.

  A rifle shot from above brought a puff of dust from his racing feet. Alcasay’s answering shot followed on swiftly behind and Angelino was gratified to hear a squeal from high above him. Then the sliding sound of something as it bounced and rolled down the sloping side.

  ‘We have them,’ he thought gleefully.

  But then the ground opened up before him and in sudden shock, Angelino slid to a halt.

  A figure, draped in the wings of a sifting curtain of falling dust rose up ominously from the grave.

  Angelino’s eyes widened in terror. The dead came to life before his eyes and a ghostly spirit lifted itself to stand before him.

  Too late, Angelino caught the gleam amidst the drifts of dust.

  It was a crucifix dangling from a necklace of beads, like the one he himself had hanging at his own neck. As Diehard fired, Angelino realized it was no spirit that stood before him but the cowboy he had let go and allowed to live. He did not feel the stunning shock of the bullet striking him in the chest with the force of a stone war club he only knew that suddenly he lay on his back and that the night sky full of stars whirled above him.

  Such is the magic of the white man, he thought as his vision began to dim and fade. They rise from the earth and kill under the sign of their cross. It is so difficult to understand.

  Diehard, stepped forward as the Apache tumbled over backwards before him, he levered back the hammer on the Schofield and fired at the wagon wheel where Alcasay hid. He slammed off shot after shot into the shadows underneath the bed of the buckboard, advancing steadily as he fired. Answering fire came from under the wagon bed and the hum and crack of bullets passing close by snapped around Diehard’s head.

  Gun smoke and dust drifted from his body as he stepped remorselessly towards the wagon. The wounded Alcasay twitched and twisted as the bullets struck, his body bucking in the confined space as his breast and thigh each received a direct hit. Blood spouted from his mouth as he tried to bring his rifle to bear, but the wheel spokes held it trapped and when Diehard’s last bullet smacked into his forehead, Alcasay’s head exploded and he collapsed instantly.

  Diehard shook the dust-streaked hair free of his face, clearing the last vestiges of it from his vision. He stood there a moment, breathing heavily. Then he remembered.

  ‘Lilly!’ he cried, spinning around. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes, goddamn it,’ came the answering call from the dark above. ‘Bastard shot the rifle clean out of my hand.’

  Diehard breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Get on down here then, it’s over now.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ complained Lilly, scrabbling on the slope. ‘But I’m coming.’

  Diehard stood over Angelino’s crumpled heap. The Indian’s lidded eyes stared back at him blankly and Diehard knelt to wrench the silver crucifix from around the warrior’s neck.

  ‘Don’t belong to you, that’s for sure,’ Diehard muttered, slipping the cross into his pocket.

  ‘Reckon he earned hisself a wooden one and you’ve got one of those already dug for him,’ observed Lilly coming up behind and reaching for her boots, rubbing at her scrapped knees as she let down her skirts.

  Diehard stood and automatically began to reload his pistol, ‘Reckon we’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Those mules are rested now but these boys here had more with them and whilst two’s company, with more than that I don’t figure our chances.’

  Lilly looked around nervously, ‘There were three of them before. You think there’s another one out there?’

  Diehard sniffed dubiously, ‘More than likely he’s gone back to fetch the rest of them.’

  ‘Then let’s move,’ Lilly said urgently.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re going,’ Diehard allowed, slipping the reloaded Schofield back in the holster and tying it down with the hammer loop as he went to get the mules ready.

  Chapter Eleven

  Early next day they found themselves at the brink of a great expanse of white.

  A flat saltpan that stretched as far as the eye could see, it was a glittering and blinding sea of whiteness under the bright sunlight.

  There was a raised road and a well-travelled row of wagon tracks arrowing in a straight line across and vanishing into the distance; it was the only furrowed mark on the otherwise arid and table-flat plain. Alongside them, sagged a faded wooden sign, the post leaning and weathered, planted no doubt by some early traveller. The wood had been leached of all color by the salt and the gray surface bore a faded and barely distinguishable message.

  It read: STICK TO THE PATH OR DROP INTO HELL.

  ‘What do they mean by that?’ asked a frowning Lilly.

  Diehard rubbed his chin and squinted at the hazy pale horizon where it disappeared and blended with the sky.

  ‘I heard about this kinda thing on these salt plains. They say in some places they’re like a thin crust that covers a quagmire of mud, you fall into that and a whole wagon can get sucked down.’

  ‘Shoot! Best do like the man says and stay on the road then.’

  ‘I reckon,’ Diehard agreed, geeing the mules on.

  They set off on the trail and the buckboard wheels scrunched and squirreled their way over the soft snow-like surface. Each side of the road was banked up a few feet above the plain and marked out the one safe route across the sunken remains of what had once been an ancient and now evaporated sea. Diehard understood how it was the only near solid ground that they could travel over but even so it took all his attention to keep the wagon from sliding from the road and into the dangerous salt slicks on either side.

  The heat hit them as the sun rose, dazzling and intensifying under the reflective qualities of the mineral deposits that the great salt desert was composed of. They plodded on for a few hours finding no hint of shade and suffering a hot breeze that was alive with gritty particles of salt that burnt the skin and dried the lips, keeping conversation to the minimum.

  Lilly bundled herself up in a shawl and her scarf so that only her eyes showed and she sat hunched and unmoving on the driving seat next to Diehard. Behind them the white mare trotted, still tied by a lead rope to the rear of the buckboard whilst the mules kept up the enforced slow pace, determinedly digging in their hooves, heads drooping sorrowfully at the struggle of dragging the buckboard over the softly crumbling and rutted crust underfoot.

  Diehard sat rigidly upright his attention fixed on controlling the mules direction, the skin of his face felt as if it was being set on fire by the abrasive wind and he pulled up his bandana to cover his dry mouth.

  ‘Goddamn it!’ complained the muffled voice of Lilly. ‘How far does this thing go on for?’

  ‘What’s that ahead? Something coming down the road?’ asked Diehard, suddenly spotting a dark spot way ahead of them on the solitary trail.

  ‘Looks like one of those settler’s prairie schooners.’

  ‘Aw, hell! Hope we got enough room to pass. I don’t fancy sliding off this road, there’s barely enough space for one of us as it is.’

  ‘He’s stopping, might be he’s considering the same thing.’

  It took them another forty-five minutes of slow travel to fetch up alongside the covered wagon, its wooden hoops stretched the broad canvas cover and the material bellied in the breeze. It was a high-wheeled Conestoga wagon, well laden with four mules pulling and a lone driver up on the seat.

  ‘Howdy there,’ called the driver, a skinny guy with his jacket and hat dusted with a powdering of salt. ‘Thought I’d best hold up, seemed wide enough here so we could pass.’

  ‘Obliged to
you,’ answered Diehard. ‘You people intent on settling.’

  ‘We are that, heading west,’ said the man and as he spoke a row of curious bonneted female heads appeared around the wagon’s opening, an older woman and two small children. ‘Me and the family aiming for the California’s.’

  Diehard tipped his hat at the women, ‘Best beware on the other side, there’s some Apaches on the loose.’

  The man nodded and bit his lower lip, ‘Any way to avoid it?’

  ‘I reckon not, we shot down two of them but I’d say there’s more about.’

  ‘Thankee for the advice,’ said the man, grimly hoisting an elderly Springfield rifle and laying it across his lap.

  ‘How far to the end of this?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘You’ve got some hours to go yet, ma’am.’

  Just then a shape moved at the rear of the wagon and a bay mare moved into sight. Immediately, the white mare whickered and moved excitedly from side to side of the road.

  ‘You see that?’ whispered Lilly.

  Diehard replied in a low voice so the man could not hear, ‘I see her, it’s one of mine.’

  He jerked his chin at the horse as the bay reared and neighed, straining at its tie-rope. ‘Where’d you get her?’ he asked.

  The man grinned, ‘She’s a beaut, ain’t she? Near fair as that one of yours, look at them go. Almost as if they knowed each other.’

  ‘Well, I reckon they do.’

  ‘How’s that?’ the man asked. ‘What you mean, young fellow?’

  ‘She’s one of six I got stolen from me. You buy her from a pair of fellows called Carter and Betterman?’

  ‘I did,’ said the man doubtfully. ‘You saying they didn’t own her legal, they had the paper.’

  ‘Yes sir, they been leaving that trash behind them as they go. I’m on their trail right now.’

  The man sniffed, ‘Well, I don’t know what to tell you, mister. I paid good money for the animal, can’t say I want to part with her.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Diehard. ‘You rightfully thought they was honest folk instead of the downright scoundrels they really is.’

  ‘That’s the way of it,’ the man agreed.

  ‘We can’t part with her, Leroy,’ barked the woman in a commanding voice whilst staring daggers at Diehard. ‘Not on a say-so.’

  ‘I know it, honey,’ placated the driver, his finger staying close to the trigger of the Springfield. ‘See here, fella. Maybe you is telling it true and maybe you ain’t but this critter cost a whole parcel of our cash money, there’s no way I’ll let her go. I aim to breed me a whole herd of prime stock off that mare, it’ll make our way out west a darned sight easier.’

  ‘I see that, sir,’ Diehard agreed. ‘Just rankles me that these mean so-and-so’s are making profit out of my loss.’

  ‘So what you aiming to do?’

  ‘Get me some justice,’ said Diehard, slapping down the reins and urging the mules on.

  ‘You going to leave it like that?’ snarled Lilly. ‘That damned animal is yours, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘G’day to you,’ called the driver, leaning over and carefully watching them depart around the edge of his wagon.

  ‘What else can I do, Lilly? You saw how it was, them folks probably sunk there last few dollars into buying that mare, I’d have to maybe kill the man to get her back and I ain’t about to do that and leave his kin alone out here. Best to just let it ride.’

  ‘Hellfire, Diehard! You could have struck a deal of some kind.’

  ‘What kind of deal, Lilly? They’re settlers, just regular sodbusters looking for a new start. Maybe that mare’s going to help them make a good home for themselves, I surely hope so.’

  Lilly wrinkled her dry lips in irritation and pulled her scarf up to cover her face again. She could see the sense of Diehard’s words and admitted to herself in sharing his sense of frustration but disguised it in silence as they ploughed on.

  The neighing of the bay mare followed them and Diehard could feel the white straining at the lead rope as it tried to join its old friend.

  ‘Hey, mister!’

  Diehard heard the sudden sharp cry of a small voice behind him and looked around to see one of the wagoner’s children running after them. He reined in the buckboard and waited whilst the child caught up.

  ‘My pa said to give you this,’ said the little girl, holding up a small brown paper sack.

  ‘Why, thank you, honey,’ said Lilly, reaching down and taking the bag.

  ‘You’re welcome. Pa said to tell you, he’s sorry but we ain’t got much in the way of vittles left and that’s all we can spare right now,’ the little girl added.

  ‘That’s right nice of you,’ said Lilly, peeking inside the bag and turning to Diehard. ‘It’s coffee beans.’

  ‘You tell your pa, I’m grateful to him for the courtesy,’ said Diehard. ‘And tell him to take real good care of that mare, she’s a special animal.’

  The little girl bobbed a polite curtsey, ‘I’ll tell him, thank you, sir.’ Then she scuttled off back after the Conestoga.

  Lilly and Diehard looked at each other, surprised by the sudden show of generosity. Meager though it was, they both knew that the family needed all they carried to get them across country and the gesture itself meant more than the gift.

  ‘That was kind,’ Lilly admitted grudgingly. ‘Those folks surely don’t have that much to part with.’

  ‘I guess it proves not everybody in this world is downhearted and mean spirited.’

  Lilly was cynical, ‘Nope, just most of them.’

  With a smile and a shake of the head, Diehard clicked the mules into motion again.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘The Allen’s Cross Annual Sweepstake Race. All Riders Welcome,’ read the sign looped across Main Street.

  The town was bustling with life and a variety of folk filled the boardwalks and street.

  There were austere looking top hatted owners in fancy waistcoats and gold topped canes sitting in their lacquered carriages, whilst rough and ready cowpokes already half drunk and wild with liquor stood around and poked fun at the rich owner’s finery. Diminutive jockeys dressed in their silks rubbed shoulders with ladies equally finely dressed in extravagant long dresses and feathered bonnets whilst they stood posing under lace-trimmed parasols. Wahooing and excited young men randomly raced the street on horseback firing pistols into the air and scattering the crowd as off-duty soldiers from the fort hungrily roamed the throng on the lookout for entertainment. In the same way as the crowd was mixed so too were the nature of the horses present, everywhere sturdy mustangs brushed against elegant thoroughbreds and Indian ponies against sway-backed hacks.

  It was a lively scene and seemed to mill without any order. Every drinking house, casino and gambling den along the street was filled to overflowing and although banned throughout the whole country, here bookmaking was obviously liberally overlooked as bookies stood on every corner giving out odds. Horse sales were in operation at a corral on the outskirts and private deals and auction sales were progressing with noisy activity. As they rode in Diehard watched as a strong looking seven hundred pound mustang mare went for the unbelievable price of three silver dollars.

  Music pounded out from a fiddle and banjo band set up on a flat wagon bed and there was dancing in the street before the band where a barrel-laden trestle table stood dispensing beer. Everywhere was rush and excitement.

  ‘Hell of a scene,’ observed Diehard.

  ‘Once a year day,’ smiled Lilly.

  ‘Where do they run the race?’ asked Diehard.

  ‘It’ll be on the morrow, over there beyond the army post,’ said Lilly indicating a small adobe walled fortress with a Union flag flying above. ‘A mile long track.’

  Diehard noted the painted poles set out in a straight line over flat ground to mark the racetrack. ‘And how’s it setup?’

  ‘They have a few types of races here over a couple of days,’ Lilly supplied. ‘There
’s a quarter mile run for the Quarter Horses, that’s a fast one. Some trick riding tomfoolery and horseback target shooting. One of them Endurance races, that particular one will have set off from Galveston down in Texas and be due in over the next few days but the big one here is the Sweepstake. That’ll have the major purse, might be as much as three thousand dollars, the total depends on how many is running. Each hopeful puts up his stake and that sets the prize money.’

  ‘Sure are a lot of people.’

  ‘They come from all over for this. Big shots from back East, real professional jockeys from New York and the South as well as your regular folk. They been running such horse races back East since the old days, so this one’s a hopeful imitation. Them’s the guys you see wearing the colored shirts and those dinky peaked caps, little fellows that don’t weigh no more than a cup of water.’

  ‘Beats all, I never seen the like.’

  ‘Set me down here, cowboy,’ said Lilly, laying a hand on his arm.

  ‘What? You getting off?’

  ‘Sure am, there’s money to be made and I’m about to go make it.’

  ‘But, I thought….’

  ‘Been real nice meeting you, Diehard,’ said Lilly, clambering over the edge of the buckboard. ‘You go well now, you hear. Hey, why don’t you enter that mare of yours? Never know, she might stand a chance.’

  Diehard was surprised to see Lilly taking her leave of him so rapidly but he noted the eager light of anticipation in her eyes and knew there was no stopping her as she hiked her valise out from the wagon bed.

  ‘I don’t have no readies to stake out for that,’ he confessed. ‘Besides I’m looking for something else.’

  ‘Got to get me looking my best,’ said Lilly, ignoring him and distractedly rummaging in her bag.

  Around them the crowds bow-waved up and down the busy street and the buckboard stood like an island in the flow of humanity.

  ‘Here,’ said Lilly, tossing up a small leather sack into the driving well. ‘This is for you. Turns out that banker fellow did have a little more than just paper in his poke.’